


Growing Pains

by taizi



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Empty nest syndrome??, Gen, Pap is best bro, Post-Pacifist Route, Sans has awesome friends, Sans has no sense of self worth, Twoshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end is going to come, and softly, for nobody but you. Your brother is slipping away a little, because this world Aboveground is so full to bursting with opportunity that it would probably kill him to sit still. And you understand, and you’re so happy for him it expands beneath your breastbone like something physical, and you know he's gonna make you proud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paper_Pluviophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Pluviophile/gifts).



The end is going to come, and it’s going to come softly. Not in the way you always thought it would—not in the way it has, already, countless times—and not in a way that will hurt anyone but you. Really, it could have been ( _has_ been) a lot worse.

But one day, some slow, creeping years from now, you’re gonna look up and realize the show’s over. Somehow you missed the credits rolling, and you’re the last mook lurking in an empty theater.

It’s not all bad, though. All you have to do is look at your brother, and you know it’s not all bad. Papyrus smiles like the sun these days. Sometimes when he’s outside he spreads his arms under the sky like it’s a blue he can feel, and laughs the way stars shine at the sheer wonder of so much space and all that open air and no roof and walls to box him in—and you’re certain _everything_ leading up to a moment of impossible joy like that was worth it.

The end is going to come, and softly, for nobody but you. Your brother is slipping away a little, because this world Aboveground is so full to bursting with opportunity that it would probably kill him to sit still. And you understand, and you’re so happy for him it expands beneath your breastbone like something physical, and you know he’s gonna make you proud.

So you start to think that maybe it’s time you take a few steps back. You have plenty of jobs to keep you busy, and Alphys has been trying to convince you to apply at the university for weeks. You can start a life of your own up here, and give your brother all the room he needs to shine.

And as long as you’re busy, maybe, you won’t miss him as much.

Frisk has been giving you long looks when they visit. They’ve always had a special place in Papyrus’ heart, and maybe in another lifetime you could have been jealous of that—maybe in another lifetime you’d call it stealing him away, replacing you—but it would feel redundant here and now. They’ve always had a special place in your heart, too.

“How are you, Sans?” they ask one night, with that doe-eyed sincerity you have absolutely no guard against. They’re here for dinner, and Pap is loud at work in the kitchen. You pat the seat next to you on the couch, and they don’t hesitate to climb right up and scoot under your arm. They’ve gotten a little taller in the past year or so, but somehow you think they’ll always fit there. “Alphys says you’re gonna work with her at that big college. I didn’t know you were a scientist!”

“heh, sure i am. the name's bond. ionic bond. taken, not shared.” Solid chemist humor, but the kid only blinks at you. You make a mental note to tell Alphys that one later, looking pointedly away from the new hire paperwork on the coffee table. “used to be, anyway. but since my bro’s headed for bigger and better things, i figured it’s the perfect time for me to get these old bones in gear myself. you know what they say; if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the _precipitate._ ”

You’re on a roll. You don’t quite understand the worried wrinkle that creases the kid’s forehead, or why their hand clutches the sleeve of your jacket like you’re about to disappear. “Papyrus isn’t headed anywhere. He works at mama’s school.”

“it’s a figure of speech, buddy.”

“If you say so.” They sound unconvinced, and there’s an edge creeping into their voice and the corners of their eyes, something teetering on the brink of upset for reasons you can’t quite discern. “But you won’t be too busy with your new job, will you? You’ll still walk me home from school and help me with math homework, and—”

“aw, pal, of course.” You squeeze them closer with the arm looped around their shoulders. “don’t think of it like that, okay? i’m always gonna be here for you when you need me.”

“And Papyrus? You’ll still be here when he needs you, too?”

You rub a bony hand through their mop of dark hair, and say, “sure, I will. but the truth is, kiddo, pap hasn’t needed me in a long time.”

And what you _meant_ by that was simple: Papyrus is grown up now, and hasn’t needed you to hold his hand on the street or tuck him into bed or button up his shirts in a long time. He’s never not going to be your baby brother, but he isn’t a baby anymore. You’ve been bracing yourself for this for years.

But the silence that greets your statement is too big and too wide; all the noise in the kitchen, save the bubbling pot on the stove and the ticking of the oven timer, has gone still. Frisk is craning under your arm to glance up and over at a point above and behind the couch. And with a pit in your stomach the size of a baseball, you know even before you look that Papyrus is going to be standing there, staring down at you with a dark cloud of _something_ on his face.

Well shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, you’d say you’re pretty good at confrontation. Generally speaking, you don’t really take anything as seriously as anyone else does, and when conflict crops up your _laissez-faire_ attitude makes it easy to let the whole thing roll off your back, crack a joke and let it go.

It’s different with Papyrus. The two of you don’t fight, not really—you argue here and there, but always about something really stupid, something that won’t leave any hurt feelings in its wake, dishes or dinner or the sock on the living room floor. There’s never been a fight worth having with Papyrus, he feels so strongly where sometimes you don’t feel at all, and you’re usually content to be buoyed along by his enthusiasm.

He nags, you pun, everyone goes home happy. But _now,_ Papyrus sends Frisk out of the room—says something about setting the table, and the kid slips out from under your arm agreeably enough, lingering for as long as it takes to pat your hand warmly. And when they’re gone, and Papyrus circles the couch, and stands in your way—with clenched fists and stiff shoulders, _staring_ at you like he’s never really seen you before—your heart plunges to the bottom of your ribcage at that expression on your brother’s face.

This is a confrontation you aren’t ready for.

“bro, c’mon. you know i didn’t meant that the way you—”

“WILL YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT I’VE DONE WRONG?” Papyrus says right over you, easily, and you freeze in your tracks to do some staring at him in turn. Say _what?_ He takes your speechlessness as a cue to elaborate, surging forward one distraught step with the front of his pink cooking apron fisted tightly in both hands. “YOU’VE BEEN SO UNHAPPY LATELY—YOU’VE BEEN SO _WITHDRAWN_ LATELY. I THOUGHT I MUST HAVE DONE SOMETHING TO MAKE YOU _ANGRY,_ OR—”

He pauses, looks as bewildered by the idea as you feel. You can’t remember _ever_ truly being angry with Papyrus, and from the lost look on his face, he can’t, either. He’s so visibly upset that it’s easy for you to ignore the way your head is spinning, and reach out with a reassuring, “c’mon, pap, i’m not mad at you. you know i don’t _rattle_ easy. i’ve just been busy—new job and all.” You weren’t really expecting anyone to have noticed the mental steps back you’ve taken recently. You weren’t expecting _Pap_ to have noticed, given how full his life is. “why would you think i’m mad?”

“I—I DON’T KNOW,” he says, fumbling with words in a way that’s wholly unlike himself. The distance between the two of you yawns. “YOU JUST AREN’T… HERE AS MUCH AS YOU USED TO BE. EVEN WHEN YOU _ARE_ HERE, YOU’RE SOMEWHERE ELSE. WHEN UNDYNE TOLD ME THAT YOU TOOK THE JOB WITH ALPHYS, AND THAT THE TWO OF YOU WERE GOING TO BE “SCIENCE NERDS” TOGETHER, I WAS SO _RELIEVED!_ I THOUGHT THAT MUST HAVE BEEN WHAT WAS ON YOUR MIND ALL THIS TIME, BUT—” He’s so upset as he shakes his head, and you hate the way his hands twist on the apron he presses so carefully, the way his eyes dart from yours like there’s something in them he might not want to see. “BUT IT WASN’T. AND YOU’VE STOPPED SLEEPING WELL, AND YOU DON’T EAT LIKE YOU SHOULD, AND—I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU’RE SO UNHAPPY, SANS, BUT I KNOW YOU ARE.”

_aw, pap._

You move to meet him, something painful thrumming in your bones at the gleam of tears in his eyes, and grab his hands. Uncurl his fingers from their death-grip on the poor apron, and curl your own around them instead. Focus all your energy and magic into making this _right_.

“hey, you _bonehead_. ‘course i’m happy. we’re free, aren’t we? living under the sun with all our friends, safe and sound. tori’s school’s doin’ great, the human’s got more friends than they know what to do with.” You grin at him, something warm and sincere pulling at the edges of the permanent smile on your face. “and you’re already takin’ the surface by storm. you’re gonna make somethin’ great of yourself, you know that, pap? there’s nothin’ else i could ask for.”

His hands tighten around yours all of a sudden, and you can practically see the sudden flash of intuition as it hits him. He only hesitates another second before he folds down around you, sinking to his knees in a way that makes him just about your height and wrapping long arms around you. You pat his back, while he tucks his face into the crook of your shoulder like he’s a little kid again.

The next thing he says is muffled by your hoodie, but he might as well have shouted in your face for all the shock that runs through you.

“YOU AREN’T LEAVING ME, ARE YOU, BROTHER?”

You go stiff in his arms, the question crawling on your back. Take a step back, sure. Give him room to shine, absolutely. But _abandon_ him, in any sense of the word?

“no way. there’s no fuckin’ way I’d ever leave you, papyrus. you know that.”

And you must be the worst brother in the world, you _really_ must have failed him, if he could even _think—_

“I _DO_ KNOW THAT,” he says, hugging you a little closer. His voice is something long-suffering, and stubborn, and unbearably fond, all at once. “ _OBVIOUSLY_.  SO I SUPPOSE MY REAL QUESTION IS HOW YOU COULD THINK I’D EVER LEAVE _YOU.”_

You blink. Notice Frisk standing in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling at you kindly. And then the world blurs, swimming lazily through a haze of tears, and when you bury your face in the warmth of his scarf, Papyrus lifts a hand to rub the back of your head.

“YOU ARE A BONE-IFIED _NUMBSKULL_. BUT YOU AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE,” he tells you, with such familiar love, “AND NEITHER AM I.”


End file.
